Angel on Fire
by Shae07
Summary: You literally fell for Bucky Barnes in 1944, Steve was there when it happened. How is it possible that you're sitting across from him now in 2012 looking exactly the same?


**I'm standing in the ashes of who I used to be.**

_**1944**_

It was a celebration.

A small gathering to acknowledge everything The Howling Commando's had accomplished thus far in sabotaging Hydra's operations. There was only one reason you were here – him. Steve Rogers, America's golden boy. You had to admit the newspaper clippings did not do him justice. He looked so young and innocent in his service uniform that night.

Guilt. It echoed through the very depths of your soul.

You had traveled this far though, so you finished your glass of wine, a little liquid courage, and ran your hands along the front of the emerald green chiffon material of your dress to smooth it out. You inhaled deeply, trying to calm your nerves before you left the bar and waltzed across the room towards him with sheer confidence. The moment he saw you, his blue eyes widened, and he shifted on his feet. Chest out. Shoulders back. You kept your eyes on him, the corner of your lips turning up in a smirk at how utterly distracted he was by you – it was adorable.

An unseen force slammed into your shoulder, knocked you off balance, and strange hands grabbed at your waist and arm as you fell. The man had managed to catch you in time and pulled you back to your feet. His hand slipped from your waist to lower back as he steadied you against his strong frame.

"Dammit Dugan," the man who was pushed into you hissed as you instinctively clutched his arm for support.

"Oh shit," a large, burly man in a bowler hat and red moustache gave you a look of embarrassment as he tipped his hat. "Sorry ma'am."

"Sorry about that," the stranger's hand was still on your lower back and heat radiated from his palm. Your skin prickled where his fingers gripped you ever so slightly through the dress, his hand felt as if it encompassed you wholly. For a moment you were terrified the fire that pulsed through your veins might consume you both. Dark hair and eyes that were blue as the ocean only emphasized the boyish grin on his face. "They're idiots."

This feeling was unlike anything you'd ever felt before. Lust? Love? One thing was certain, for the first time in a long time you felt safe. You smiled at him because his charm was infectious, "It's okay."

"I'm James," he offered his hand as an introduction and you took it carefully. "My friend's call me Bucky."

You had given him your name and as he brushed his lips across your knuckles you knew things would never be the same. Sergeant James Barnes stole your heart that night and saved you from yourself without knowing. He wasn't who you had come for, but sometimes fate has other plans.

The two of you fell in love hard and fast. The kind of love that absorbs two people so fully that nothing else exists in the entire world except each other. He was your first real love – first real mistake – being in love with Bucky had meant bringing his best friend into your life.

The photo Bucky had carried with him of he and Steve showed the person Rogers was before the war, the shield, the serum – a rail-thin kid from Brooklyn. Bucky had told you stories about having to save him from fights he'd get into and how awkward he was with girls. He'd also tell you how proud he was that Steve had volunteered for that experiment. Bucky wanted you like Steve, because that was important to him – Steve was important to him.

You tried not to like Steve Rogers, you really had. After all, you knew where that road would lead. There was no escaping it though, because Bucky was a brother to him. They were a packaged deal. You didn't get one without the other. So, Steve had befriended you, against your better judgement.

"_Watch out for each other," you told them. _

"_Always," Bucky placed a chaste kiss against your lips before he turned to join Dugan and Morita. _

"_Will do," Steve gave a small smile, warm and assuring._

They were just young men – boys – fighting the monsters of the world. Not exactly the same types of monsters you were accustomed to, but monsters nonetheless.

One year felt like forever.

In the middle of a war, you had snuck around to places to you shouldn't have been, just to spend a few moments with the guy you loved and the one you shouldn't have met.

It was amazing.

Until it wasn't.

People die. It's the curse of being human. That's one reason you'd never let your guard down before. Bucky Barnes had been worth the momentary lapse in judgement though, Steve too, even though you hated to admit it – he was a good friend.

When you lost them both, you had been devastated, but in your life, you knew you would outlive people.

Lose those you love.

That didn't make it any easier.

However, with Steve Rogers gone you had nothing left to lose – literally.

**2012**

You had seen the news – The Avengers had saved New York.

At first you thought it was someone imitating him, just a cheap knock off behind the mask. So, you had come to see for yourself, after all, it's been over sixty years.

They said he was frozen in the ice.

What is your excuse going to be?

You watch as he sits across the patio from you, a half dozen empty tables between you, sketching away in his notebook. Steve used to do the same thing, all those years ago, always drawing in his spare time. Against your better judgement, you pull your sunglasses lower on your nose, peering over the rim of them to get a better look.

It's him – it's _really_ him.

The same golden boy you remember, he's not aged at all. Your mind is racing and for a moment you just stare at him as a flood of memories wash over you. Your heart stops as his eyes flick up from his drawing and immediately focus on you.

He recognizes you instantly. You're still as beautiful as the last time he saw you, but that was over sixty years ago. Steve blinks, afraid his eyes are deceiving him. His mind is telling him there's no way it's you, but his heart is reminding him that in a world full of aliens and gods – maybe – just maybe the universe could give him this.

A piece of home.

He's been stumbling through a world that's not his own. Everything has changed. At least when he puts on the suit, he has a job to do, responsibilities as Captain America.

He's a hero.

A damn national treasure.

Take away the red, white, and blue, and he's just Steve Rogers, a man who doesn't belong here.

This isn't his time – it isn't either of your time.

Why are you both here?

The recognition is evident on his features and you quickly push your sunglasses back up on your face as you carefully stand, trying not to draw attention to yourself. It's too late though, because he's on his feet, notepad forgotten on the table.

He's halfway across the patio as you head for the sidewalk, calling out behind you, "Hey." You don't stop, but he's persistent as he chases after you. "Excuse me, miss?"

You pick up the pace, but he doesn't relent. Images of your smiling face flash through his mind. Bucky's arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, the wide smile on his face crinkled the corners of his eyes. He had been happy for his friend, even if there was a tinge of jealousy there. Steve had saw you first that night, but after everything Hydra had done to Bucky – he was the one who needed you.

Rogers has to jog to catch up with you and gently places his hand on your shoulder to stop your escape. For a moment you forget to breath, his touch familiar – yet foreign. You close your eyes as he circles around to get a better look at you. An almost silent whisper falling from his lips, "It _is _you." You look up at him slowly, staring into his curious blue eyes as he continues, "How – how are you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," you remark.

"Long story."

"Mine's longer."

Steve tells you about everything, the fight with Schmidt, the tesseract, and crashing the _Valkyrie_, then about Loki and the battle of New York. You can see a happiness in his eyes when he looks at you, as if no time has passed.

It has though and so much has changed.

"How?" his brows furrow. "How _are_ you here?"

You don't want him to know the whole truth – not yet. You've lost a lot since he's been away and having him here brings back feelings you'd long since forgotten.

You didn't think it was possible anymore.

"It's complicated," you say before taking a sip of your coffee.

Steve knows you're holding something back and his hand finds yours on the small patio table between you and he gives it a gentle squeeze, "Tell me."

He had developed this uncanny ability to ready you like a book during that time together in the war.

Maybe it was from being a third wheel in your relationship with Bucky.

Maybe it was something else.

It had been wrong, and you knew it, but fate be damned. There had been something very pure about Steve Rogers – innocent. In a world full of monsters and demons, he was good and kind, and oblivious to it all.

"I can't die," you say simply as if that sums up everything he needs to know, "technically." He stares at you for a moment, waiting for you to elaborate, but you take another sip of your coffee instead.

Steve raises his eyebrows after a few moments of silence, "I'm going to need more than that."

"I'm not human," you finally say, your fingernail anxiously scraping at the chipped paint on the table. "I'm what they call a Phoenix."

His blue eyes are inquisitive, and you can see the flurry of questions waiting there, "Like the mythical bird?" You nod and he continues with boy like curiosity, "Do you breathe fire?"

"No," you shake your head with a smirk and hold your hand up, wiggling your fingers. "That comes from these."

He gives a slow nod as he contemplates another question, "Can you fly?" You give him another shake of your head and he takes a deep breath as he leans back in his chair. "Okay."

"Okay?" it's your turn to look surprised. "I just told you I'm not human and you're just going to roll with it?"

"I fought aliens two months ago," he gives you a half-smile, "alongside an Asgardian. Weird isn't so weird anymore."

Truth be told, as long as you aren't Loki, he could care less what you are. You're here. That's all that matters. Seeing your face brings back the good memories of the war, those small moments in time, which he'd forgotten about.

"You know what we should do," Steve says suddenly, as a thought crosses his mind. "Let's go see a movie." Your brows furrow together in confusion at him, the large smile on his face making him look like a teenager. "Remember? Me, you, and Buck, we used to talk about when the war was over and we got back home, we were going to spend all day at the theater just watching whatever was playing. Eating popcorn."

"With butter," you do remember those discussions.

"Loads of butter," his eyes widen with excitement. "What do you say?"

You just got him back, you're not ready to let him go just yet, even though you know you should. It's selfish, and you know that, but you agree, "Deal."

The two of you spend the rest of the day watching movies and binging on theater popcorn and snacks while reminiscing about the past and how much things have changed. When Steve talks about how everything is different now, you can see a glimpse of that rail-thin kid Bucky had always protected.

You know what it feels like to be lost, and even though you had told yourself you wouldn't stay – you can't leave him like this.

He was Bucky's best friend – your friend.

**2013**

_Just a few months, until he's more adjusted. _

That was the phrase you had started telling yourself in the beginning. Steve had no one and you couldn't leave him. He needed you and the fact your friendship was able to pick up right where the two of you had left it in 1945 made it easy to stay.

But you shouldn't be here.

You know it.

Yet, here you are, assisting Captain America and the Avengers in taking down another Hydra facility, this time in D.C. of all places. The fighting, the violence, it's too much. Fueling the flame inside of you, making you irrational sometimes, but you can't tell him that. Then you would have to explain everything, and you can't do that either.

The mission is going according to plan until two Hydra agents get the drop on Barton and you're the only one to see it. You react without thinking and your right arm juts out towards the two agents, hand igniting in a beautiful combination of red and orange flares. The action immediately causing the two men to burst into flames. Their screams of agony are short-lived as your manipulate the blaze with your hand. It only takes a few moments until nothing is left of the men but a pile of ashes.

Clint raises an eyebrow in concern because you've never used your powers like that, then gives you small nod of appreciation for saving his life.

"What the hell was that?" Steve says from behind you, ignoring Tony's '_Language Cap' _over the comms.

"Sorry," your tone almost flippant.

"We've talked about that," he reprimands you, making you feel like a child, which only pisses you off. "Incapacitate only. Killing is a last resort. We don't do that."

"_You_ don't kill people," the cold look in your eyes is one he's seen before.

"Neither do you," Steve voice is still firm, calmer.

Shaking your head, you glare at him, "You don't fucking know me. There's a whole world of bad out there Steve. It can't all be contained. Some of it has to be killed."

You know you've said too much and you storm off. You're going to have to tell him, but you're too angry at him right now. You died too many times during the sixty years Steve was frozen in the ice. It's taken a toll and you know he's seen it, his blue eyes filling with concern and uncertainty at some of your actions. You aren't the same carefree soul you were when he and Bucky met you, in fact, you know there's not much of your soul left at this point.

That was part of being a Phoenix.

You and Steve have talked some on the subject of Phoenixes. He knows you're a rare species who can control fire with your hands, although he's not a fan of that. You haven't mentioned the issue with your soul though, or how he plays a part in your story. There's no easy way to tell him and you know it will be easier to leave – disappear.

Steve approaches the quinjet seeing everyone on the team except you and glances to Tony his eyes questioning your whereabouts without him saying anything.

"Hey Firestarter," Tony says over the comms, even though you hate that nickname. "You still inside?"

"Yea," you respond.

No one expects the explosion that originates from somewhere inside the warehouse and rocks the quinjet, but Steve's eyes go wide in horror. Tony has to grab him to stop him from running into the flames. Metal arms cling to him tightly, as his world goes up in bright orange and red waves.

You told Steve you couldn't die – _technically_. He never asked what technically meant because he was afraid to.

He searches the warehouse himself after the firetrucks leave. Tony and Natasha help, but there's nothing left.

This is _technically_.

Later that night, you wake up in the rubble of the warehouse – naked and cold.

You know you've stayed too long. You can barely feel any of yourself left inside and it scares you. Feeling completely empty, void of any emotion or empathy. That is a fate worse than death.

It's time to let him go. He'll be okay without you. He has Tony and Romanoff now. You should leave while you can, but Steve Rogers is the only friend you've ever really had – which in itself is a cruel fucking joke.

You rap your knuckles against the wooden door in a rhythmic beat. The hem of the oversized bright yellow t-shirt you'd stolen from the construction worker's truck brushes against the middle of your thighs, and it reminds you just how numb your body feels from the cold. It had been a long walk from the warehouse to here.

Steve opens the door to the apartment, red-rimmed eyes staring at you in shock. Your face has smudges of ash, sprinkles of it are in your hair, and you smell like the thick smoke of a campfire.

"Have you been crying?" Your tone edging on derisive as you enter the apartment.

"I thought you died," he replies slowly, before closing the door hard behind you.

"And?" You can't help the cockiness in your voice, chalk it up to being almost soulless, and you turn to him. "I told you, I couldn't –"

His mouth is on yours, shutting you up as he pushes you back against the wall. One hand grips your waist firmly while the other tangles in the hair at the nape of your neck. Your mind races because this isn't supposed to happen – it can't. You shouldn't be here.

The muscles in his shoulders flex under your fingers as he tightens his hold on you, pinning you to the wall with his body. Steve's kiss is punishing and as his tongue slides past your lips, your body arches into him instinctively, overriding your thoughts. His assertiveness makes you forget the reason behind your visit, the warm, wet sensation between your thighs quickly becoming your new motivation.

He presses his forehead against yours as he breaks the kiss for a moment, whispering against your lips, "I thought I lost you." He has never looked at you like this before, with such longing and desire, and you feel it.

_Really _feel it.

The small part of you that is left is suddenly overcome with a surge of emotions and feelings.

Joy. Fear. Sympathy. Confusion. Love. All colliding together, twisting and spiraling inside of you like a whirlwind. Making you question yourself, '_When did I fall in love with him?_'

This need you're feeling.

This ache.

You've forgotten what tears feel like as they prick the corners of your eyes and you cup his face gently with your hands, staring up at him. Your golden boy, "I'm here – I'm right here, Steve."

It would be easier if he fucked you. Cold and hard against the wall of his apartment or with reckless desperation in the shower as water streams around the two of you, but he doesn't. Steve Rogers makes love to you that night. Forcing you to melt as rough hands trace every curve and line of your body with feather like strokes and tender touches. His mouth both insatiable and intimate with kisses, expressing his feelings for you without words.

It's raw, intense, and passionate.

You shouldn't have come back, it's not fair to him.

But you're thankful you did.

Because you've never felt more alive – the irony of that is not lost on you.

The next morning you're sitting at the kitchen table when Steve comes out of the bedroom and he can immediately see the look on your face. He notices the duffel bag by the door, and it makes his heart stop.

"We need to talk," you say ominously, and the man slowly moves to sit across from you at the table.

"I don't like how this looks," there's a noticeable tick in his jaw as he keeps his eyes focused on you.

"I didn't tell you everything – about what I am," you begin to explain, wrapping your hands around the coffee mug in front of you nervously. "Everytime a Phoenix dies and is reborn, or rises, a part of our soul burns off. It's an incentive really, to keep you from dying. The more you die, the sooner you become a soulless monster, not caring about anything or anyone. Killing others becomes a second nature to us then, at least while we have a soul, we can keep that part of us in check." You watch him closely as you speak, making sure he's understanding everything as you say it.

"So, the two men at the warehouse?"

"Yea," you nod shamefully. "Phoenixes _are_ immortal, but we are destined to be killed eventually. A final death, one which we don't rise from. When a Phoenix rises for the first time, there's a name you're given. The name of the person who will ultimately be the one to kill you – bring about your final death. Usually a hunter, or someone along those lines. Sometimes, that person may not enter your life for hundreds or thousands of years." You glance out the window thoughtfully, "You have no idea what it's like to know the name of the person who will kill you. Live with that for years, but you can't run from fate."

Steve sits across from you solemnly as he processes the information you're sharing, "Can you change it?"

You shake your head. "I wanted to though. I wanted to change my destiny, kill the person whose name I was given before he had a chance to kill me. I found him too, but fate had other plans," you glance away from him. "She's cruel that way – fate – destiny or whatever it is that's written in the stars. None of it would have ever happened if I'd not been trying to change it."

"Whose name were you given?" he asks quietly.

"Yours," you say, looking back over to him. "Steve Rogers."

It looks as if you've punched him in the gut. That night, all those years ago, when he saw the prettiest girl at the party walking his way, it was because you had planned on killing him. Because eventually he was supposed to kill you.

"I never wanted to be your friend Steve," you let the words slip out quietly. "Then Bucky happened, and I let my guard down. That wasn't fair to you and I'm sorry."

His mouth goes dry as he shakes his head, "But I wouldn't –"

"You won't have a choice Steve," you reply. "When my soul is gone, that's it."

There's a moment of silence between the two of you as he shakes his head in frustration. "How much is left?" he questions you, his brows furrowing together. "Of your soul?"

"Not enough."

"There has to be a way we can fix this," he tries to reason with you.

"No, we can't," you look at him hopelessly. "This is it. We both know what's coming and I need you to promise me, when it happens, you'll take care it."

"I can't do that," the pain on his face is enough to break your heart.

"You have too. When there's nothing left of _me_, I'll just be a shell. The person you love won't be here anymore, I'll be a monster," you can see the wretched expression on his face as you stand up from the table. "Promise me." Steve looks out the window as he starts to chew on his bottom lip. You reach down, placing your hand on top of his, squeezing it gently, "Please."

He glances up at you with glossy blue eyes. He's broken because of you and you'll never forgive yourself for this. You shouldn't have come back.

"I promise," his words are barely audible.

"I should go," you say before leaning down to kiss his cheek gently. "I _do_ love you." The words come out as a whisper against his skin before you stand back up. You make it halfway to the door when you hear the chair scraping across the hardwood floor roughly. Steve is on you by the time you turn around, his hand flying to the side of you neck roughly, pulling you back to him. His lips crash into yours hard and desperate as tears slowly stream down your face.

Sometimes your soulmate isn't the person you fall madly in love with, sometimes it's the person you least expect.

A beautiful disaster.

Steve Rogers is your soulmate.

He's also the man who will have to kill you one day when your soul no longer exists.

The thought of it shatters your heart and you'd give anything if you could take that burden away from him, but fate is cruel.

"I'll see you around Steve," you state quietly as you move to grab your duffel bag.

He watches as you open the door to his apartment, his face full of sadness as he says the words firmly, "I hope not."


End file.
